Now, my last post waxed poetically about the numerous virtues of the Mumbai train system. In the midst of this soliloquy, I managed to state that these tranquil impressions only applied to non-peak hour train rides. Here, I describe my daily follies travelling during peak hours.

One of my beloved co-workers suggested taking the second class compartments to and from office; he reasoned, erroneously, that "they were safer and had more room." He said it with a queer smile on his face; poor, trusting, ignorant American that I am, I took it to be a natural ex-pression unique to his physiognomy. It was to be my first trip to office in the trains and I honestly didn't know what to expect.

So, like the sacrificial lamb led to slaughter, I timidly approached Santa Cruz station on a hectic Tuesday morning. It was 9:23 AM as I rounded Shiv Mahal hotel and made the ascent up the stairs as usual. Unusual, however, was the great tide of people crushing me into the banister with all the force of the Arabian Sea. Like a fish swimming upstream, I pushed through the faceless masses and staggered to the top of the walkway and attempted to find my bearings. I again felt the sensation that everyone else was "plugged in" to an intricate and high-speed network and that my own connection was somehow faulty or not yet established.

 Vaguely, I managed to find my way down to the platform schedule for Churchgate; it was the same platform I had taken many times before, except now it had a more urgent and sinister character. At this point, I should have reconsidered my co-workers valued advice, but foolishly I lined up with others in the second class line and summoned my best nonchalant countenance. It didn't matter; there were literally hundreds of pairs of eyes boring into my large, round form. It was impossible to feel any more like an outsider or an intruder.

After a few incomprehensible blasts from the overhead speaker shot directly into my ear canal and did a little more damage to my long-term hearing, I saw the train lurching down the tracks a few hundred metres in the distance. Protruding from every available crevice were human appendages; some had taken to hanging from the outside, valuing expediency over personal safety. I did my best tough guy impersonation and smacked myself a few times in order to produce the adrenaline so desperately needed to attempt such a ridiculous stunt. As the train slowed bodies were already falling to the platform; I presume they were pushed out by the surge from inside the bowels of the compartment. Amazingly, not a single person fell; they all landed on their feet and in the proper direction, like cats.

As an aside, how has the Indian Olympic team never won a medal in men's gymnastics? Every day I am privy to countless feats of extraordinary courage, flexibility, agility and dexterity, yet none of these elastic Indian chaps has capitalised with Olympic gold. For shame, India, for shame.

And I return to my story; the first dozen or so lads were literally chucked from the still moving train onto the platform, but this was only an initial sprinkling. As the train slowed to a reasonable speed, read non-suicidal, the main thrust came pouring forth in all its manic majesty. My courage evaporated; I watched dumbly the orgy of confusion and chaos taking place at the entrance of the second-class compartment. I quickly calculated that at least thirty individuals had exited and probably the same number had claimed their personal two inches of steel by the time the train launched towards its next destination.

I'll admit; I was a little shaken up. I had miserably failed in my endeavour and felt very self-conscious. I contemplated going back up to the walkway and finding a taxi on SV road. The thought of an hour in traffic and the recurring image of the one-footed 60 year old man who had managed to push past me in the dash for second-class kept me rooted to the platform.

I gritted my teeth; I bought a frooti and downed it in a single gulp in hopes of procuring a sugar high; I tied my shoes extra tight and hid my wallet, mobile and house-keys in the depths of my office bag. I waited for the next train. By now I was painfully aware of the points and stares, some incredulous and some insidious. "No matter," I thought; "I'll show these Indians a little American ruggedness." The next train approached; the same drama played out, except this time I made it to the entrance before being repelled by a brick wall of humanity. I shoved; it shoved back. I grabbed the metal bar in vain and uttered a curse as the train slowly departed; two people cut in front of and attached themselves to the outside of the compartment as I stepped away in defeat.

My face flushed as I turned to find a crowd of hecklers and onlookers taking time out of their days to gawk at the callow American. I pulled out my mobile and pretended to call somebody; I faked a conversation and acted as if I intended to fail twice in getting on the train. Still, not one to take defeat easily, I rallied what was left of my broken confidence and prepared for a final assault on the second class compartment. If this didn't work, I was calling in sick to office.

Another aside, somehow, during all this embarrassment and idiocy, it never occurred to me that I should consider the first class compartments. I've since learned that there are degrees of insanity; the first class compartment is 'a little bit insane' and the second class is 'completely friggin insane.'

So the third train came down the tracks, looking more crowded and less inviting than the two preceding it. No matter, victory would be mine. I lined up where I anticipated the train's momentary stop and snorted like an enraged bull; the guy next to me casually ended his phone conversation and yawned. As the train pulled in I recklessly ran towards the compartment. Finally, I had adopted the proper mindset. I literally bowled into the crowd trying to exit and they scattered like fallen pins; it was a strike! I found myself in the middle of the aisle; I reached down and saw that my bag was still in my hand. Success!

Like a python slowly increasing its death-grip on its victim, however, the crowd fought back; my breath was rapid and claustrophobia had me on the verge of hysterics. The surge that had followed me into the compartment kept pushing until one man's torso was pressed directly into my bum, poor guy. Amid the curses, shoves and sweat, I alone laughed aloud. I was thinking of the concept of 'personal space', and how each person is guaranteed three feet in America. I had fought for the three millimetres I so proudly owned, and even then they were being siphoned away by the people crawling under and around me. Just then, when I was beginning to enjoy my irrational musings, I realised that my presence was causing quite a stir in the cabin.

The first verbal barbs were said jocosely, so I shrugged them off easily:

"Hey, gora! Mota gora! Did you pay for two tickets? You should have; you're damn big!" *laughter*

"Hey, firang, chale jao!" *laughter*

            I realised that I was encroaching on their territory, so I kept quiet. I pleaded with God to deliver me safely to Mahim station; I pledged to ride the AC bus and never to complain again about such pettiness as a 1 hour journey to office. Then, unfortunately, the insults came edged with a degree of hostility that I hadn't encountered.

"America? F*** the US!"

"Hey, you bloody f*****, go back to your country!" *oohs and aahs and heckles*

"Hey, *insert Hindi curse*, jai Maharastra!" *jai Maharastra*

            Now, I have this indomitable ego and frequently it gets me in trouble; I said the first thing that popped into my cranium.

"Hah, keep talking boys, impressive match against Bangladesh the other night."

"You hate America? We'd probably beat you in cricket and we don't even know how to play!"

I won't share the rest of the encounter, but suffice to say it wasn't a pleasant five minutes. I honestly didn't care, however, I was pissed. I pushed my way to the exit, right past the young Sikh gentleman who had directed so much vitriol my way, and out onto the Mahim platform. Somebody spit at me as the train departed; he missed.

As I walked to office I recalled the wise words of my senior editor, "Baba," he said, "you can do anything on the trains, but don't talk about cricket, religion or politics." Well, I reasoned, at least I had only broken one of his three axioms. I wasn't hurt in any way, but I had learned a valuable lesson.

It's ignorant for me to assume that I can enmesh perfectly into any situation. The 2cd class compartments at peak hours are not a place for me, and I should realise this. I must respect that by virtue of being a foreigner, I will draw attention, especially if I'm eating road-side chaat and riding the train like a proper Desi.

I discovered a lot that day, the hard way, and have not lost my cool since. It was a learning experience, and I've wished many times that I could have the opportunity to apologise for putting my ego above my adoptive nation.

This is the final post on trains for some time; tomorrow's post will examine Indian bureaucracy and its more invidious aspects

            When I tell people that I ride the trains to and from work, I'm inevitably confronted with a host of suggestions, most of them involving the BEST buses and staying far away from the railways. They tell me that I'll inevitably have my wallet stolen; they incredulously denounce travelling in the trains WITH the flow of traffic; they finally admit that I am certifiably insane and leave me to my own devices. For me, however, it's hardly a question at all; the trains compare very favourably to BEST buses!

I live in Santa Cruz in close proximity to the train station. I also live in close proximity to SV road. Countless people have told me to take a taxi or bus to Mahim; these people are accustomed to the gridlock of Mumbai. For me, waiting an hour to drive 6 kilometres constitutes insanity, and I refuse to submit to such madness.

Furthermore, the BEST buses aren't exactly a picture of comfort, despite what those who scorn the trains may say. If the trains are overcrowded, then the buses defy descriptive adjectives. The labelled maximum limit for riders must be a cruel joke; I routinely see buses threatening to topple over from bearing the weight of several multipliers of this idyllic number. I've been manhandled, poked, prodded and pulled. I've had my face wedged into a gentleman's unwashed armpit for ten agonising minutes; I've had my seat wrested from me in a moment of weakness by a three foot tall dwarf. It's true; the little lad slyly told me that my stop was upcoming, only to jump into the seat the moment I lifted my bottom; I still had eight stops left. The bus conductor walks up and down the impossibly narrow aisle every four minutes; retrieving eight rupees from my right front pocket has never proved so difficult.

From my flat in Santa Cruz, I travelled by BEST bus to office one time, and one time only. After forty-five minutes and little progress, I willingly exited the bus early and continued the journey to office on foot. After fifteen minutes of walking, casually might I add, I stopped for 'cold drink' at one of the numerous beverage vendors dotting SV road. While sipping my Frooti and surveying the mind-bending traffic, I was shocked to see a familiar cast of characters pass me; it was the same bus I had exited earlier. "Look," I thought, "if I can walk faster than a mode of transportation, it's time to think outside the box and consider some new options."

The next day, a faithful co-worker and I travelled to Narimon Point in order to report on the unveiling of a new book. During this fateful train ride, he assured me that my best bet was the train system, and to abandon SV road altogether. The following afternoon, I stopped in Churchgate Station and found my way upstairs to the booking office. After fifteen humorous minutes and many half-English half-Hindi utterances, I managed to procure a three month railway pass from Churchgate to Andheri. Well done.

The pass has literally made me master of Mumbai. On a whim, I whip down to Churchgate and visit friends before catching a train to Andheri and eating dinner with my sweetheart. I love the clicking and clacking of the barren compartments as they shake from side to side. I enjoy the sensation of wind rushing across my face and the cornucopia of sights and smells that flash before me as I leave South Bombay behind and enter the dusty suburbs.

It certainly beats the hell out of sitting in traffic and inhaling pollutants directly from the exhaust pipe in front me. It certainly beats being stuck at one intersection with two beggars and three hawkers vying for my attention and beating the window in frustration. And it certainly beats being assaulted by Hijras; that's a story for another day.  

I enjoy the expediency of the system and the camaraderie that exists between riders. I still play the part of outsider; I garner all sorts of attention. But on a relaxed Sunday afternoon no one seems to mind my presence and I generally field a fair share of benevolent questions. Riders gracefully motion me and ask me about my family, encourage me to speak my torturous Hindi and offer up precious nuggets of advise that help me make it through the day. Notice, however, that I said a lazy Sunday afternoon. Peak hour train rides, on the other hand, have a distinctly different flavour, of which I'll have the pleasure to relate tomorrow.

Tomorrow- The trains at 'peak' hours

So, I walked, ticket clutched tightly in hand, towards the mammoth central terminal in Churchgate Station and watched the trains coming and going. It's hard to recreate that initial impression, but it was one of utter astonishment. I had two distinct thoughts; firstly, I couldn't believe that people jumped off the train as it was still moving and ran alongside it until their momentum halted. Secondly, and this may explain for the first, I couldn't believe the frenzy of activity clustered around the compartment doors. At first glance, it appeared that the riders were literally fighting one another in order to get inside. On second glance, I noticed that the combatants were women! These were the same women sweetly smiling to me across counters and inside shopping venues; now, however, they took on the avatar of brightly coloured wolverines, tearing saris to shreds!  

With a feeling of trepidation I approached a benevolent looking man and inquired as to which train I should board. He pointed me to the slow-train leaving for Andheri and walked with me as he was taking the same train; then, he noticed my ticket. Shocked, he grabbed it from me and examined it, clucking with disapproval. "Baba, you have a 2cd class ticket." He finally said; "What's that mean?" I innocently responded. "That means you're going to get a full body massage!" and he beamed a wide smile before stepping into the first class compartment.

I located the second class men's compartment and to be honest, it looked incredibly intimidating. The lighting was paltry; the furnishing was lacking. I noticed there were no open seats and that many people were standing in the aisles. The lines of hanging metal hand-grips reminded me of iron hooks in a meat-packing factory; the train looked suitable for shipping livestock. I am not one to easily admit defeat, however, so I solemnly approached the door and remembered that 2 million people made use of these same trains every day. It suddenly emitted a loud noise and began slowly leaving Churchgate, so I swallowed hard, grabbed the pole and pulled myself in. My affair with the trains was only beginning

Further blogs on this topic will be thematic, as it makes little sense to follow a chronological order of my train experiences. There will be many, many, many more to come!

        If someone asked me to sum up the outrageous experience of living in Mumbai in one phrase, it would undoubtedly be, "I use the trains as my exclusive form of transportation, including to and from office every day." To one unfamiliar with Mumbai, this might seem a touch vague and a very poor description in general. Mumbaikars, on the other hand, would immediately recognize me as a battle-tested warrior and as one who has stolen a precious glimpse of the underbelly and inner-workings of this fascinating and vibrant metropolis.

            Honestly, I could write an opus on the Mumbai Railways, an epic novel rivalling Tolstoy's War and Peace in both length and panoramic breadth of vision. I anticipate writing numerous musings regarding the trains, so the blog entires will serve as an open-ended diary involving my experiences and observations. Doubtless there are hundreds of note-worthy incidents in my future, so this open-ended forum will not want for material. Let's begin with my general assumptions and initial experiences.

I believe masala chai is the lifeblood of the city, and in the same spirit, I contend that the railway system is the actual spinal column housing Mumbai's precious nervous system. The different stations are the vertebrae, fused together and providing structure to the spinal cord and its many nerves, constantly sending messages to and from the brain in the form of workers.

Watching the train stations at rush hour from afar conjures up a feeling I can only describe as, well, indescribable. Never before have I witnessed such a deluge of humanity nor have I seen such a high density of population going about their daily lives. To the detached observer, train riders lose their singularity and individuality; they succumb to the collective spirit that governs 'social' animals like ants and termites. The wave of workers slowly approaches the lone stairwell leading to the walkway, moving in unison, a steady stream constant as the Mother Ganges herself.

Riding the trains at rush hour conjures up a host of other feelings, few of them involving detachment. The serenity and solidarity seen from afar devolves into the chaotic riot observable at the battle-front. Bodies jostle for position and pushes are expectantly exchanged; it's Social Darwinism at its absolute finest. Yet, in spite of all the aggression and confusion, a system governs the social behaviour of train-riders, of which I'm still painfully ignorant.

My personal introduction to the railways came by nefarious means- the simultaneous bombing of trains and train-stations on July 11, 2006. My girlfriend and I watched from my home in Cleveland; I tried to console her as grief washed down her face in the form of countless tears. She still remembered the horrific bombings of 1993, during which the Air India building was bombed (and a family member narrowly escaped harm), and this most recent bombing brought both painful memories and new concerns.

The next day, however, I was completely shocked to read reports of Mumbai's heroic resiliency and buoyancy. I witnessed 9/11's traumatic effect on America; it was not just calculable costs and loss of life, but also disastrous paranoia and irrationality that paralyzed the nation. We are still reeling. Mumbai, on the other hand, picked herself up and carried on in as normal a fashion as possible. The snapshots and video footage instilled in me a strong sense of respect and a keen interest in the railway system itself.

I researched on the internet and grappled with the enormous statistics and figures; 2 million people use the train system on any given day, the most used public transportation system in the world. I determined myself, therefore, to inspect the trains upon arrival and observe the fascinating system personally.

My second day in India presented me with the opportunity to watch the trains in all their glorious madness. I was parked near Marine Lines and had a wonderful view of the western railway and the trains it kept hurtling past me every four minutes. I was astonished to find every single compartment of every single train absolutely packed to the point of spilling over. In fact, it took me at least twenty minutes to get accustomed to the idea that people routinely ride on the outside of the train, or even more recklessly, on top of the car itself. I'd honestly never seen anything like it, and I must admit, I thought the trains an implausible form of transport for a foreigner.  

            I was here for less than a week when I needed to first avail of the train system. I was to head north to Mahim from Churchgate station at a time when the vast majority of riders would be heading in the opposite direction; it would be easy, right? Wrong.

 I cautiously entered Churchgate station only to find a veritable beehive of activity; within two minutes I had ducked into a side alley in order to gather my wits. The constant din of conversation and the general flood of people were honestly too much for my senses to compartmentalise; I felt that some huge sporting event or mammoth parade was either concluding or commencing. There was no other explanation for this absurd quantity of people moving with such purpose. Everyone else seemed to move as part of the crowd, enmeshed in the fabric of the masses. I, on the other hand, stood out like a sore thumb, bumbling my way around and into about fifty different people.

I eventually ascertained that the four mammoth queues I was struggling to navigate actually formed the line to the ticket booth. This was not done without a fair share of uncomfortable moments and embarrassment. While waiting for my ticket I attracted all sorts of unwanted attention; I received two offers for drugs and had several small children pull at my pant-legs. Exasperated, I asked the people in front of me and behind me to make the beggars go away; they seemed quite satisfied to let me perish. After 15 minutes, the longest 15 minutes of my life, I had my 20 seconds at the Ticket Counter and dutifully paid for my ticket to Mahim (with return). At this time, I was still unaware of the demarcation between first and second class; I would learn this important lesson shortly.

Many more instalments to follow…

For readers- Should I use a thematic approach here or a chronological one? Or a combination of both? There is no dearth of material, that much is certain.